The Darkness Inside Him
by BeautyInSmallThings
Summary: Oneshot. Everyone was scared of Russia, but no one ever knew why. They never though he was capable of this...


A smile played on Ivan Branginsky's lips as he approached the White House; the home of Alfred F. Jones. Clad in a shapeless coat and thick cravat scarf, he didn't look too out of place in Washington DC's December. The city itself was clothed in a blanket of white. Winter's breath fogged up the windows, creating icy patterns on the glass. Coldness hung in the air like the Christmas lights strung below each rooftop, twinkling away in the early morning. Snow placidly sat in the grooves of the brickwork in nearby houses. Misty puddles were scattered across the roads, reflecting the heavens of which dim sunlight broke through the coat of grey cloud cover.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Clutching his messenger bag a little tighter, the Russian man fought the tinge of doubt which plagued his shadowed mind. He rubbed his hands together like he'd seen the Americans do as they paced through their wintery neighbourhood. Despite the façade of normality as he adopted the customs of the locals, his eyes displayed something far different- hatred. It sat behind the iron bars of his violet iris and roared. The fire of loathing grew and grew, eating away at his soul until he simply was the fire, and nothing more. The raging inferno set his lilac-coloured eyes ablaze with its scalding flames, which slowly licked away as they reminded his of their existence.

_Tick, tick, tick._

He paused, spying a frosty bench on the pavement. Making his way over, he brushed the rickety wooden seat down of snow and sat down. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed into the bench and admired the sky. Never once had he noticed the extraordinary amount of shades in the sky; there were so many colours. Some clouds were the colour of milk- solid and white. Others were a more delicate white- wispy and almost translucent- like a lost feather from an angel. Then there were the greys; there were thousands of shades of grey. Some shades shone like silver scales, as if the sky were a giant fish, and others were dark and foreboding, like monsoon clouds. In between the cracks of this huge blanket of graduating grey, sunlight broke through. Divine and almost biblical, the golden light poured through the cracks in the blinds of the sky and flooded the American capital's early morning landscape. It kissed the snow-coated rooftops and licked the dark tarmac of the roads.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Somehow, it missed the Russian man. Darkness still sat in the grooves and dents of his weathered face and his hair still cast shadows over his violet eyes.

The only light cast over his teardrop-shaped eyes was from the darkness inside him- the firestorm of hatred which crackled and hissed inside him.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Branginsky wondered what Alfred F. Jones was doing now. With a smirk dressing his round face, the Russian decided that Alfred was still asleep. He loved the idea of the American man being asleep, blind and deaf and oblivious to anyone else's actions. As long as he was asleep, he was vulnerable. That word, vulnerable, sent shivers of pleasure down the Russian's protruding spine. Eduard was vulnerable when Branginsky arrived at his house, as was Raivis and Iryna and Natalia, and not to mention Toris. Dear, sweet Toris. He'd never been expecting it. The Russian had politely rang the doorbell and the Lithuanian naïvely answered it. How the Russian has loved it as Toris' face sank as he slowly realised exactly why this silver-haired man was on his doorstep. He knew soon enough of course. It only took a few menacing words whispered into the Lithuanian's ear before the Russian was able to claim Toris as his own.

_Tick, tick, tick._

The Russian didn't want Alfred F. Jones as his own. As nice as it would be to have such a powerful country at his command Branginsky, as much as it pained him to admit it, knew perfectly well that the American would rise from the ashes as he always did. When Alfred was under Arthur Kirkland's rule, he broke free. When he was stricken by poverty others pitied him until the last second before he regained his prosperity. Had Ivan received pity when he was hit by poverty; when he was hungry every day; when he worked so hard his bones ached; when he was beaten again and again by his cruel boss who declared that nothing was good enough? No, they had not- they had seen his suffering and turned away, pretending they never saw it at all.

_Tick, tick, tick._

That annoyed Ivan. It was those moments when he could sense pairs of eyes watching him before they left him alone without a word, when the first sparks of the Russian's fire of hatred were born.

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Ivan, Ivan Branginsky? Is that you?" A voice rang out, clear as church bells in the frosty air.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Snapping his head to the direction of the voice, Ivan caught sight of a blond man making his way over. The man was dressed warmly in a thick, brown coat. Underneath a matching cocoa-coloured hat a wild mop of unruly hair sat above his mint-green eyes and comically thick eyebrows. The British man smelled of tobacco, Ivan raised an eyebrow. He never thought that Arthur Kirkland was the type to smoke.

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Da, it is. Hello, Arthur." Ivan tried not to let his malice leak into his innocent tone. He contained the anger. It would all be put to good use, he reminded himself.

"Oh, unusual to see you here- I would have thought you'd be spending Christmas at your house."

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Christmas is celebrated on a different day for me."

"Ah, I see. Well that explains it." The British man shifted his feet in the snow nervously. "How have you been?"

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Not great," the Russian replied.

"I heard about Toris and the others moving out, that must be a shame. Oh, is your boss still..."

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Yes, he is the same."

"I understand."

"Not entirely," the Russian rose from the bench. He towered above the Britain, who gulped in spite of himself.

_Tick, tick, tick._

"What do you mean?"

Ignoring the blond, Ivan replied, "you will soon though."

_Tick, tick, tick._

"What the bloody hell do you mean?"

"You'll see."

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Ivan? What are you doing?"

"You'll see."

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Iva-" The blond stopped mid word, mouth hanging from his softly sloping jaw. He frowned. "What's that ticking noise?"

"You'll see."

_Tick, tick, tick._

The Russian paced over to the large gates of the white house, pressing his face against the cool iron of the bars. He exhaled, listening to his own thudding heartbeat. He controlled his breathing and his muscles tingled with energy. The fire behind his violet eyes remained bright and strong, but the flames changed. No longer were they primitive, wild, savage; now they were sharp, white-hot and controlled. Ivan knew exactly what he had to do.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Reaching into the messenger bag that he had held so close, he pulled out two black spheres. He felt their weight in his gloved hands. Resting his forefingers on the raised, red buttons he stared at the large white building in front of him. A smile curled at the corners of his lips.

_Tick, tick, tick._

"Merry Christmas, Alfred F. Jones."

_Tick, tick, tick._

The silent smile remained, even when he pushed the buttons.

_Tick, tick, ti-_

**Please review, I am relatively new to fan-fiction so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoyed! **


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